


so i won't say it at all

by berfetofcogenality



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: (sorta future fic but tbh you can imagine this whenever), Angst, Did I Mention Angst?, Ed Is Very Dumb, Future Fic, M/M, SUFJAN STEVENS BABY, a n g s t, a tiny little mention of abuse, ed gets what he deserves :), like blink and you miss it, oswald >>
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25987009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berfetofcogenality/pseuds/berfetofcogenality
Summary: His expression doesn’t change. Ed’s bottom lip trembles, lightning cracks, and thunder booms, sounding akin to his own father’s voice.You cheated.Ed decides, now, to cheat.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	so i won't say it at all

**Author's Note:**

> TW // small mention of abuse from ed's father
> 
> so uhhhhh... hi? i'm a long time lurker. i mean LONG time lurker. i've been here for years. pretty much read almost every fic on this tag. i've also been writing my own fanfic for a long time but for some reason, recently, i figured "fuck it", so here's my first fic here?? i hope it doesn't suck. expect more from me in the future. or don't, i'm not really sure.

“It was you the whole time.”

Ed’s gaze shifts. On the edge of the balcony, Oswald stands, mouth pressed into a firm line. His arms crossed, whole body enswathed in warning signs; signs that read _do not aggravate_. Signs in which Ed has grown very familiar with in the past year. Signs, which Ed has also learned to ignore. Warnings such as these, were like ones plastered on the back of cosmetics. _Test before application_. What a ridiculous statement. Ed’s superior knowledge of the chemicals compacted so conveniently inside the bottle considerably decreases any risks he might encounter upon application. Ed knows that he isn’t going to have an allergic reaction to a product, just like he knows Oswald will never leave him, no matter the damage. 

Miss Kringle wore them proudly, the signs, like a sash. She walked around with teeth that were whitened and beaming, hair red like strawberries and a blush to match. To sufficiently counter her welcoming physique, was bright yellow caution tape laced around her shoulders. It snaked around her body like a python, brushed against Ed’s fingers every time he touched her, with the cheap scent of plastic invading his nostrils when he finally managed a nose full of her perfume.

Ed was the only one who ever saw this. _These signs_. Officer Doughtery seemed to be blissfully ignorant to them, smacking her ass and almost proudly flaunting her bruises to a room full of cops. _Disgusting brutes_. The enigma to who could see Kristen’s warning signs may never be solved, but ultimately, there are only two options; either Ed’s head supplied them for himself ( _a voice snickers in Ed’s head, telling him that it’s more than likely_ ), or Kristen presented the warnings to him only. 

In the end, however, it didn’t even matter, because the neon gold of a yellow which emanated from Kristen only helped to spur Ed on more. For better or worse, they _had_ ended up together. Kristen’s warnings were, as Ed had predicted, unwarranted ( _hmm, Eddie, are you certain? We choked her to death, asshat. Do you qualify that as unwarranted? She died, Eddie, in our arms, looking up at us, terrified. Just because you couldn’t take no for an answer, and pay attention to the damn signs-_ ).

Kristen's warnings were different from Oswald’s. Oswald’s warnings were not visual. In the most liberal of terms, Oswald had an excellent poker face. Despite the fact that emotions were his ultimate weakness, when it mattered the most, Oswald became a master at hiding them. Examples come to Ed’s mind of scenes he’d never had the pleasure to see, like Oswald practically grovelling at Fish Mooney’s feet, saying _‘yes, Miss Mooney, of course Miss Mooney, would you like me to rub your feet Miss Mooney?’_. This Oswald was completely unfamiliar to Ed, but if Oswald wanted, Ed was sure Oswald could present that version of himself. But, despite this obvious virtue Oswald has, there is one weakness that manages to break this talent down; his obvious affection for Ed.

This made the warning signs _oh so clear_. Oswald didn’t wear a sash, he was much too subtle for that. Instead, his signs appeared in the veins in his forehead, the spit spitting out of his mouth as he talked, the way his eyes would open up; vulnerable, yet furious. The most brilliant thing was that, like Kristen before him, Ed was the only one to bear witness to these signs (or, at the very least, notice them and acknowledge them for what they are).

Oswald and Kristen were different, though. The difference mainly lived in the outcome of aggravation. What would happen if you poked the bear for too long? Kristen’s threat was a sharp tongue, Oswald’s a sharp knife concealed expertly behind his leg brace. 

Ed suddenly remembers that Oswald is, in fact, speaking. Head in the game, Eddie.

“This whole time, I’ve been searching high and low, sending my men out, getting them killed. Hell, I even got that dreaded Valeska involved,”

_“Love blinds the best of us, Ozzie baby.”_

_Jeremiah grabbed the blonde he keeps around, the name that escaped Oswald, and spun her around. She ended up in his arms, giggling in delight._

_“That’s why you gotta keep ‘em reminded,”_

_His tone changed, deepening to a gravel that hardened his words like cement. “What happens if the beautiful light of the sun graces our fragile eyes too harshly?”_

_His hand moved to her neck, grip tightening. Her eyes flew open in panic. The hand slid off her neck... and her smile resurfaces. They share a decadent bout of laughter._

_Oswald walked away, knowing that what those clowns had wasn’t love, but questioning why it mattered when they seemed so happy._

Oswald now knows why it matters; ignorance may be bliss, but confrontation is freedom.

“Just for him to tell me that the traitor was right under my nose.”

His usual arrogant tone isn’t there, he isn’t angry. For some reason, that creates even more of a challenge for Ed. He knew how to deal with an angry Oswald. A soft, placating voice, the scent of ginger tea, and a subtle shoulder rub. This Oswald, however, was going to be quite the challenge indeed. Ed straightens at the thought, but he has never once lost against Oswald. _My, my, Eddie, you are so very oblivious. How are you going to get yourself out of this one?_

Oswald stares at Ed, searching his face for an answer that will not surface. Distantly, from the inside of the Iceberg Lounge, the joyed and mindless screaming of bustling patrons is heard. 

“Why?” Oswald breathes, finally. He sounds breathless, tired. 

Ed is quiet, for once. Silence was the poison of Ed’s mind. He desperately wishes for Riddler’s degrading voice, anything over this all encompassing abyss of silence. Memories resurface of his time working for the G.C.P.D. when he would play the static of the television as he fell asleep. Absently, in a subconscious part of Ed’s brain, he wonders if the noise made him feel a little less lonely. He wonders if, just maybe, if he fit in with his colleagues just a tiny bit more, he wouldn’t need to play the droning noise at night. Perhaps, his brain would be content to just sit by itself.

 _Come on, Eddie, no need for melancholy now_. Right. He knows that Oswald knows. Knows why. He has to; it was common knowledge that Oswald knew Ed better than Ed knew himself. This is a test. A test of faith. A sacrifice. Ed breathes in, puffing out his chest and steeling himself.

Oswald stares at him, waiting for Ed to make his move. Oh Oswald, you of all people should know that timing is imperative in situations like this.

“Oh, what does it matter?” Oswald’s hands fly up, the breaking point of his patience. “I should have expected this.” He turns around, staring at the city below him, face hidden from Ed.

Briefly, Ed wonders what ‘this’ is. His noncompliance? His natural tendency to treat everything like a game, some riddle to be solved? He could only guess Oswald’s thoughts at this moment.

“A year and a half. We’ve been at peace for a year and a half,” Oswald placates. 

Ed is well aware. In fact, he was quite enjoying the relationship he had gained with Oswald. To call them best of friends would be hyperbole ( _oh come on, Eddie, will you ever admit how much you care about him? It’s getting exhausting, quite frankly_ ), but the friendly terms that they had procured recently were… pleasant to say the least. 

Simply thinking of him in his very essence; Oswald, brought fewer memories of terror than it once would. Instead, there was now a reserved spot in Ed’s brain for late night, bar side conversations. Neon lights blazing in the background, Ed perched on the counter and Oswald settled on a bar stool. Light flirting was now a new addition to their routine, and it was just another tactic of Oswald’s to keep Ed on his toes. Always on his toes.

“We’ve been through the hell of no man’s land together, ready to run away together. Do you remember how I got this?” 

The jarring sound of a finger tapping Oswald’s monocle interrupts his speech. 

“Jim told me you were hysterical while I was in surgery. He said you refused to leave my side for more than a minute. You held my hand all throughout the night.”

_Dork._

“Leslie said she had never seen that side of you before. What changed?”

Oswald sounds desperate. He’s pleading to understand the very enigma that works his friend’s mind. Something like guilt pangs at Ed’s heart, and he pushes it away swiftly. _Guilt is a useless emotion_. He knows that he will have to be in his best emotional state in order to win him over. He channels Oswald for a swift moment, placing on his best poker face.

“Nothing.” Ed says this with certainty, hands clasped together in a show of sincerity, even though Oswald could not see it.

“Absolutely nothing.” Ed’s voice raises, more assured. He knows that at the end of this bickering, Oswald will come back to him. He always does, he can’t break the pattern now. 

“Then why?”

Ed’s confidence grows with the knowledge that Oswald won’t leave him. This is their formula: animosity, acquaintanceship, engender of affection, antipathy, forgiveness. Then the cycle repeats. Oswald will always come back.

“You know why, Os.”

Oswald sighs, looking truly exhausted. 

“Say it.”

Ed breathes deeply, ready for the pain of humiliation, of which he was rather closely acquainted with (or at least, used to be). Fists clenching, he musters up the tolerance to spit it out.

“I have a desperate, compulsive need for attention. You know this.”

Ed pauses for a moment, wondering if that was enough to satisfy Oswald. When he receives no answer, other than the sight of Oswald’s back, he pushes his eyelids shut, and then opens them again, shoulders tense.

“I need to show the G.C.P.D. I am their superior.” Ed exhales tightly, teeth grinding together. That was difficult, but it was necessary. 

Oswald would come back to him.

A chuckle escapes the smaller man’s mouth. His arms are spread out, wing-like across the balcony railing, gripping it with white knuckles. The taller of the two approaches. He moves slowly, cautiously, as if he was approaching a rabid dog. Ed watches, and when he sees no signs of warning, he places his hands on the balcony, mirroring the former’s position until their fingertips are touching. Ed engulfs Oswald, not only psychically, but in the very essence of him. He traps Oswald in his scent, in his web of charm, suffocating him until he can no longer deny him. Ed knows now that he has him. Just a little more shoving, a gentle press of his finger in between Oswald’s shoulder blades, and he would be hurdling over the edge. Ed looks at Oswald.

Oswald doesn’t look back.

Silence settles heavy in the air, hanging like dread between them. Okay, that was slightly unexpected, but such things were normal with a man as unpredictable as Oswald. _I thought you knew the warning signs, Eddie?_ Ş̶̢̛̥̙̠̗̩̗̠̰̫̥̈́͂͛̉͊̇̑́̊̽͜ͅh̵̨̢̥͇̺̲͙͓̭̰̜̙̞͋̿̏̿̂͒̍̊̏̌̾̈́ǘ̸͉͚̯͚̲̻̹͖̫̍͝t̸͎͚͉̗̪̰̩͉̖̻͔̻̲́̑̌̍̌̄̇̌̑̓͜͜ ̶̼͇̥̤̣̯̗̊̃́͆̌͘͝͝͝ṵ̴̖̮̪̯̲̼̩̦̜͉͙̳̂̋͛̓͑̈́̄͌̃̒̆̆͘̚p̸̘̔̌̈̏̀̅͌̕.

Ed’s chest contortions with unwelcome anxiety, the phantom press of it on his shoulders. Ed waits, mind buzzing with static. He chews the inside of his cheek, waiting for Oswald to speak. The words do not come.

“I think perhaps, you said it best,” Ed tries, tired of the lack of progress.

Oswald’s baby blues meet the hazel abyss of Ed’s, _finally_.

“When you said that we truly are meant for each other. No matter what, we always come back to each other. Fate does have other plans for us, and I must admit, it’s not enmity.”

A small breath escapes Oswald’s lips, something that implies that he’s predicted that’s what Ed was going to say all along. His eyes shine, something that looks like tears in them. Revelation spreads blatantly across his face, and Ed’s body finally relaxes… but something’s wrong. This isn’t the usual look that Ed has learned to decode. There’s no open eyes, blue vein, or even a soft smile. Oswald’s eyebrows are furrowed, jaw clenched. A weak smile graces the bow of his lips, but it’s unfamiliar.

“You’re right.”

Ed’s heart swells. Oswald would stay with him until the end of time, he knew he would. Even if fissures broke their way through the earth, they would hold hands as the ground broke beneath them, their arms would tear apart as the world split in two, always together. _Do you keep him around because you want to, or because you need to, I wonder?_

“Fate does have other plans for us, but perhaps it’s not companionship either.”

Ed’s mind stops. No. His vision twirls, vertigo suddenly grips him. The height to the ground now seems so much further. That’s not how it goes, that’s not the song, the rhythm, the pattern.

Ed has played Oswald like an instrument time and time again. He’s played him with a broken string, he’s played him out of tune, but Oswald has always bellowed the sound Ed wanted to hear. That’s not the formula, that’s not the sound, and _oh what a beautiful sound_. He’s supposed to forgive him, they’re supposed to be with one another. They are soulmates, they have to be.

“Maybe we were never supposed to meet.”

No, that was certainly wrong. Oswald was speaking nonsense now, he had to realise that, right? They were supposed to meet. It was fate. Fate brought them together, and fate continued to bring them together. _You talk a lot about fate for a nihilist,_ a voice in the back of Ed’s mind supplied. _You’re quite the hypocrite._

“All we’ve ever done is cause chaos, to each other and others,” 

An image appears in Ed’s mind, which he has tried over the years to make disappear. A tarp, pushed open, by one gloved hand, the owner of which was irrelevant. Isabella’s mangled body, purple and red adoring her pale milky skin, and scabs of crusted skin turning black and flaky. 

“And when things are nice, they’re not, because we both know the inevitable storm is coming.” Oswald’s on a rampage, and doesn’t seem to be stopping, words pouring quickly out of his mouth. Ed needs him to stop.

“Oswald, no,” Ed’s eyes well up against his will. Damn it. He refuses to let them fall, Edward Nygma will not cry in front of Oswald Cobblepot.

“We’re practically walking on eggshells all day long. It gets frustrating, Ed.”

Oswald steps back. Ed steps forward.

“Os- Oswald, no. T-That’s not- You said it! We’re soulmates! Forever bound by eternity!” 

Ed is inches away from the warm body that encases Oswald, wind running through both of their hair and the dreary, dark sky of Gotham looming behind them. Bright lights of bustling buildings peek out of the sunless background, but just barely. Whispers make their way through the wind. Some sound like Kristen, some like Isabella, and some his own father. He deafens them.

Ed reaches out. He grabs Oswald’s shoulder, turning him around forcibly. The feeling of breeze blowing into his chestnut locks feel placating, assuring. The wind tells him this is how it’s meant to be; fate, and he believes it. His palm meets the soft skin of Oswald’s cheek. Oswald’s never looked so steeled, his usually expressive eyes now guarded. Ed’s never looked so vulnerable. A storm is brewing, thunder rolling in the background. How disgustingly appropriate.

“Oswald, please.”

His expression doesn’t change. Ed’s bottom lip trembles, lightning cracks, and thunder booms, sounding akin to his own father’s voice. _You cheated_. 

Ed decides, now, to cheat. 

Without thinking, he leans forward, eyes shut. He’s completely blind, reaching for something and he doesn’t know what. His face is surging forward, fast, instinctual, just like his tiny feet had run all those years ago. Down the street, in his rain boots, only having just pulled them on hastily. He could feel the bruise blossoming on his face, tears and raindrops accompanying it. His father's voices screamed for him in the background, but he couldn’t hear him, all he could hear was the thump thump thump of his tiny feet on the ground. And thump thump thump Ed’s heart thrummed in his chest, as subconsciously, a manipulation tactic so vile that Ed’s own mind had not even realised he was doing it, Ed seeks out the pillowy haven of Oswald’s lips. Instead, he’s met with a hand at his shoulder, and a soft, broken voice.

“Don’t.”

The world stops. The spinning in Ed’s head comes to a jarring halt. Lightning cracks but thunder does not roar in response. Ed’s done it now, he knows he’s done it now. But he’s desperate, he needs him. He needs the pattern, he needs fate.

“Why?” Ed croaks.

“You don’t mean it,” Oswald’s voice cracks.

Ed’s brain goes on rapid fire, he could think of about one million excuses right here on the spot. _I do, I’ve meant it for years_ , or perhaps, _I wouldn’t have then, but I do now_. He could say whatever suited Oswald’s fancy. He could twist and bend himself into whatever shape Oswald wanted him to be. He would let Oswald feel him, brush his fingers against his edges, and feel their smoothness, to test his authenticity. But before Ed can open his mouth, Oswald presses his fingers to the barrel of the gun, his lips.

“You once told me that a dying man would do anything to save his own skin. I told you once, without me, there is no you.”

Ed blinks, confused. 

“You feel as if you are dying, Edward. You are doing what you think will save you. You don’t mean it.”

Ed shakes his head rapidly, and Oswald smiles. Tears burn down his faces like acid, eyes shining bright from the pain and lips curled upwards cruelly. Ed doesn’t think he’s ever seen destruction look so beautiful, or powerful. Because despite what Ed tells himself, convinces his ego into believing, Oswald truly does hold the power. _Glad we finally agree._

Oswald straightens, smoothing his lapels out and placing on his best politician grin. He’s pretending again, damn it! 

“Ed, darling. You might want to start making your way out. It’s starting to rain, you wouldn’t want to spoil that suit, after all.”

Oswald’s tone is friendly, with an edge to it. A butterfly knife. Ed knows what it means. _Leave while we’re still on civil terms_. He doesn’t care; he grabs the man’s arms desperately, grasping for purchase. His attempts are no longer mental, subliminal. They’re psychical. They’re abrupt, obvious. If he has to stand here for the rest of his life, holding onto Oswald just to make him stay, he will.

“No, no, no, no. This isn’t part of the pattern,” Ed slips out in a moment of urgency.

Oswald freezes for a quick moment, smile cracking. The grin comes back to his face immediately, a mere slip up. Oswald chuckles condescendingly, and Ed is infuriated that Oswald can just see right through him.

“Oh, Edward,”

Ed hates it. Hates him, at this moment. Because no matter how many times Ed beckons and Oswald runs, Ed still beckons. He calls for Oswald. Every single goddamn time. Oswald comes, and on the surface he might seem weaker, more feeble minded than Ed. But each time he comes, it is with more knowledge, a better understanding of Ed. Ed is the fool for continuing to put the poison in his mouth.

“You and your patterns. Life doesn’t have a pattern. One must learn to improvise.” 

Ed stares, eyes letting out one last plea, being met with the cold wall of abnegation. 

“Leave.”

So, Ed does, and it hurts. It feels as if every single step down the staircase feels like a stab to his abdomen. And for once, the logical part of his brain, the part that isn’t ruled by patterns and riddles and puzzles, states that he may never be welcome back.


End file.
